


On a Cold Night

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Romance, Sexual Content, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 01:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13753074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: Sherlock and Molly get snowed in while on a case, and to avoid frostbite and hypothermia, have to share a bed. What could possibly go wrong? Yes, I know, this trope has been done around two dozen times, but I love it, so I wrote another one. Hope you enjoy!





	On a Cold Night

Molly shivered against the chill seeping through the poorly-constructed wooden walls. She’d never been one for the “great outdoors,” she much preferred the hustle and bustle of London, and all the people… some more than others. On a normal day, Sherlock Holmes was at the top of that list. Today, however, she wasn’t so sure.

It was a fairly simple case, one he took more out of boredom than anything, and her presence with him came more from his unacknowledged desire for company rather than the need for any assistance. They were in the highlands of Scotland, in a cabin belonging to a man suspected of robbing several high-profile homes in Glasgow. It had taken only twenty minutes for Sherlock to find all the missing items, phone the local police, and advise them to make the necessary arrest. Unfortunately, twenty minutes was also enough time for the unpredictable Scottish weather to switch quite drastically. As Sherlock pulled open the door, a heavy curtain of snow cascaded from the roof, narrowly missing him.

“Ah,” he intoned blandly. “That does present a problem.”

Molly peered over his shoulder at the white, slushy mess that now blanketed the world—and the rented car in which they had arrived.

Sherlock flipped his collar up against the cold and marched with an enviable elegance through the snow, and began brushing it off the car with his coat sleeve. After some time, he managed to clear enough to open the driver side door. Molly watched from the doorway, shivering in the wind, wondering if he had an ice scraper handy.

Then again, given the way he seemed to be struggling with the door, they might have bigger problems.

His lips moved as he grumbled something to himself, whatever he’d said lost within the howling wind. He trudged back to the cabin, brushing off the powder clinging to his sleeve.

“Door’s frozen shut,” he announced as he moved inside.

Molly quickly closed the cabin door. “Well, that’s lovely,” she muttered.

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge her comment, and was instead tapping away on his phone. A moment later, he swore under his breath. “We might as well get comfortable. The storm is supposed to last through the night.”

“Through the night?!” she repeated.

“Yes, that’s what I just said,” he huffed impatiently.

She scowled at him. “What about the burglar?”

“He’s already been arrested,” he waved an indifferent hand, the other one still holding and tapping at the phone. “Got a text, they’re bringing him in now.”

Molly sighed, only somewhat comforted. “Why don’t you just try one of the other doors? It may be a bit awkward, but at least we could get somewhere.”

“They’ll likely be in the same condition.”

“Well, you won’t know if you don’t try it.”

He shook his head. “Mm, balance of probability suggests—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she groaned, cutting him off. “ _I’ll_ go try it!”

At her words, his head snapped up, and his brow furrowed. “It’s freezing out there.”

“Why, I’m shocked,” she deadpanned, leveling him with a glare as she yanked the door open again. “Back in a mo.”

Without waiting for a response, Molly closed the door behind her, shuffling cautiously toward the car. The further she got, the more she realized this was rather a stupid idea. Though she was dressed warmly enough, her coat was hardly waterproof, nor were the “sensible” flats adorning her feet. By the time she reached the car, she could barely feel her toes. Her frustration with Sherlock and her rarely-seen stubbornness pushed her on, though. She wiped the passenger door as clean as she could, the cold seeping through all three layers of long sleeves, and pulled on the handle, only to find that _damnit_ , he was right.

Fueled now by a mix of anger and desperation, she pulled harder, over and over, to no avail. In a last-ditch effort, she widened her stance and planted her feet, pulling with all her might. She realized too late the flaws of this plan. With the almighty tug she gave, her feet slid against the slick, frozen ground, and she fell on her back with a yelp. And in the process, the door hadn't even budged.

Molly lay there in shock for a moment, processing what happened, then a familiar, curled head appeared above her.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” she growled, pushing herself into a sitting position. Her bare hands smarted in the frigid snow, and her clothes were now soaked through.

Sherlock, to her surprise, held out a gloved hand to help her up. She considered shoving it away and doing it herself, purely out of spite, but with her luck, she would slip and fall again. With a soft, mumbled, “Thank you,” she slid her hand into his. He easily pulled her to her feet, and kept a hold on her as they maneuvered back to the cabin.

Once inside, Molly shed her useless coat and shoes, and shivered on her way to the sofa. Sherlock, meanwhile, made his way into what she presumed was the bedroom. She hoped any blankets on hand were in a better state than the dusty, lumpy sofa.

He surprised her when he tossed a pair of flannel pyjamas at her, in addition to a thick patchwork  quilt. “I'll start a fire while you change.”

She blinked slowly  “Oh. Er… thanks,” she said, then hurried to the bathroom. It was somehow colder than anywhere else in the cabin, and her teeth clacked as she peeled off her soaked clothes. The pyjamas were soft and comfortable, if a bit loose. Obviously, they were men’s, but they were dry, so she didn't complain.

When she re-entered the sitting room, Sherlock was still crouched in front of the fireplace. She moved to the small kitchenette, and started rummaging through the cupboards. As luck would have it, their unwitting, recently-arrested host had a few cans of soup and several jars of preserves. Molly took a larger can of tomato soup and a jar of peaches, setting them aside while she looked for a saucepan. She found one, rinsed it in the sink, then set it on the stove. Unsurprisingly, it was a gas range, which meant she'd need a match.

She turned to ask Sherlock of he'd finished, only to find him directly behind her, holding a matchbox in his outstretched hand.

“Thanks,” she smiled softly at him, taking the matchbox. His expression was unreadable, but before she could question him, he had moved to the cupboards, and produced two bowls. Molly somehow managed to hide her surprise; he tended to complain about eating while he was on a case. Although, she supposed, since had already solved the case, it did make sense that he would be more willing to eat.

The soup took only a few minutes to warm, and she poured it directly from the pan to the bowls. They ate in silence, Sherlock still poring over his phone (Molly suspected it might be Twitter), while Molly focused on not freezing to death. It really was _bloody cold_.

Once they had both finished, they took their dishes to the sink, and Molly washed while Sherlock dried. It was an odd, comfortable moment of domesticity that sent a pang of longing through her. How would it to be to share moments like this with Sherlock every day? Well, not every day, he’d likely go mad from boredom if every day was like this. Still, she could get used to the feeling of doing something as mundane as washing dishes with him. Somehow, it didn’t feel mundane. They moved in perfect rhythm with one another, almost like a dance.

Or perhaps her tumble in the snow had frozen her brain.

They moved back into the sitting room, where Sherlock stoked the fire and Molly wrapped herself up in the quilt he’d tossed to her before. She perused the bookshelf near the fire, and found an old, worn copy of _Great Expectations_ . Carefully, she slid the book out from its place between _Valley of the Dolls_ and a textbook on the French Revolution. The owner of this cabin had interesting taste in books… and an odd system of organization.

Molly nestled into a seat on the sofa, and Sherlock soon took the space beside her, pulling out his phone. They sat in a companionable silence, both engrossed in what they were doing, with Sherlock occasionally poking at the fire to keep it going.

When the words on the page began to blur and repeat themselves in her mind, Molly closed the book and yawned. “S’pose I’ll go to bed,” she announced. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Hmm,” he responded. Molly rolled her eyes, and moved into the small bedroom. The bed was situated in the centre of the room, close to a second fireplace. Molly would have loved to set a second fire, but she didn’t think she could stay awake long enough to do so. Instead, she covered herself with a gratuitous number of blankets, and curled into a ball on her side. It wasn’t _warm_ , but at least she wasn’t shivering. Before long, she settled into a deep sleep.

* * *

Sherlock had a problem. One that had been nagging at his subconscious for the past few hours, and was now brought to the forefront of his mind. In the next room, less than four metres away, slept Molly Hooper, his brainy, beautiful pathologist, and the unwitting keeper of his heart for longer than he’d care to admit. He’d kept that information secret in order to protect her, but as this evening’s events had panned out, it became increasingly difficult to do so.

It was bad enough when she wore her usual jumpers and sensible trousers. Her typical ensemble was designed and chosen for comfort, rather than style, yet it suited her. She was always lovely, no matter how frumpy her clothing might be.

But then she had to go and fall in the damn snow, necessitating a change of clothes. And the only clothes available _had_ to be a loose pair of men’s pyjamas. The topmost button came low enough to be entirely too tempting, particularly with its tendency to shift and expose a great deal of collarbone... and, on occasion, her bra strap. Good Lord, who knew a simple white strip of fabric could be so damned alluring? It had taken no small measure of self control to keep his hands to himself through the evening.

Then she’d gone to bed, and it wasn’t until some time had passed, and the supply of firewood had dwindled to its last log, that he realized the full extent of his problem. He would have to share a bed with her. He’d determined that he should save the log for the next morning, as it would certainly be even colder, as mornings tended to be. The temperature had dropped already, and even with as many blankets as Molly was sure to have piled onto the bed, there was still a chance for hypothermia to set in. As for him, the only blanket left in the room was a tatty old afghan, unlikely to provide much protection against the cold.

There was nothing for it. Bed-sharing was their only option. The problem would be convincing Molly (and himself) that it meant nothing, that it was the practical choice... which it _was_.

Sherlock took a breath, bracing himself, and stood. The fire had dwindled to no more than a few glowing embers, and with the fire screen, was unlikely to be a cause of concern, so he left it, and made for the tiny bedroom. Molly had already fallen asleep, quite deeply judging by the slow rise and fall of the mound of blankets she was buried beneath. Sherlock inched closer, taking great care with every step, until he stood directly beside the bed.

A thousand thoughts and feelings coursed through him as he watched her. _She looks like an angel_ , the thought came, unbidden. His experiences with Sherrinford and his sister had brought out the more sentimental side of him. He’d fought against it for a time, but found the fight to be as exhausting as it was fruitless, and it all came crashing down on him at the sight of the woman he loved, sleeping peacefully, her expression soft and warm and… angelic.

But if she was an angel, then what did that make him? He’d told Moriarty, so many years ago, not to mistake him for one. He’d fallen so far, blackened his soul so entirely, he feared he would taint her, bring her down to his level. And he couldn’t have that. If there was one thing this world needed in abundance, it was the goodness of Molly Hooper.

Sherlock inhaled and released another deep breath, and circled the bed to the opposite side. He shed his Belstaff, followed by his jacket and shoes, then cautiously climbed into the bed beside Molly. He paused before shifting all his weight onto the mattress, watching her for a reaction. When none came, he expelled a silent sigh of relief, and settled down onto the bed.

His relief came too early. No sooner had he found a comfortable, moderately warm position, than Molly turned and snuggled into his side. One hand curled around his bicep, while the other found its way to his chest. He hoped the thundering of his pulse beneath her fingertips wouldn’t wake her. He swallowed thickly, reminding himself that this was necessary, that they needed the shared warmth in order to survive the night. That was the only reason he was in this bed. If there had been more firewood… more blankets…

His thoughts faltered as she pressed even closer, her warm breath tickling the side of his throat. All his carefully constructed arguments fled, and all he could think about—all he _cared_ about—was the small, soft, incredible woman in his arms. Slowly, so as not to wake her, he gathered her against his chest, smiling when she hummed in contentment. Their legs twined together, and his right hand traced patterns on the back of the hand still resting over his heart, while his left moved in lazy circles on her back.

Tomorrow, he would come up with an excuse. Tomorrow, he would return to his cool, collected, logical self. But tonight… he would simply _feel_.

**Author's Note:**

> No matter how many variations I read, or how many times I read each variation, the “snowed in and forced to share body heat” trope continues to be one of my all time favorites. And since we just got a shit-ton of snow where I live, it’s on my mind, and I thought I’d contribute. Part 2 coming soon!


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